Angel
by Saxaphonebaby
Summary: Driven mad by a love he can never have, all he wants is for the pain to end. Soon, it'll all be over. Soon, there won't BE any more pain. . .please r&r!


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A/N: Hello, and welcome to this fanfic. Please don't eat me if you don't like it. I know it's bad. But. . .yeah, just please don't eat me.

I own nothing =(

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Very important note: _Only Me_ is on hiatus, because recently, we had a virus on our computer than ate EVERY SINGLE BLOODY FILE. Therefore, I have to type out the **entire** story again, and that is quite a few chapters to re-type. So, I'm really sorry, but it's gonna be a while before I'm to update that one. Thanks!

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Angel

He stares, dark eyes shining with tears that threaten to spill. He's watching you, and the way the light of the lamp throws shadows over you. You're the one he secretly refers to as Angel. You know why? Because to him, you _are_ an angel. A beautiful angel. You are everything to him - his saviour. You are his light, in a world that is dark. Did you know that, Angel? I bet not.

He's crying now Angel. He's hurting so much inside, been hurting for so long. . .a year? Two years? That's a long time to be hurting, isn't it Angel? And why is he hurting?

Because of you. Yes, you're his saviour - but that was before he fell in love with you. Are you surprised now Angel? Bet you weren't expecting THAT. Yes, he's in love with you, and he hates himself for it. For you are perfect, beautiful, with a voice that matches your nickname - what else? Angel.

Your voice. Strangely, that's how he first fell in love. Although he didn't realise it was love at first.

It was a blisteringly hot day. Shirts were sticking to backs, and tempers were running high. The band was practicing - or rather, trying to practice, but finding it no use. No one could concentrate for more than five minutes - it was just way too hot. You had gone to the kitchen to get a glass of water, while everyone else fell asleep on the sofa, in chairs, or, in Dewey's case, on the floor.

You had just grabbed a clean glass from the cabinet, when AC/DC's Long Way To The Top came on the radio. You remembered performing that as an encore at the Battle of the Bands, and you started singing along as you ran the tap and waited for the water to turn cold. What you didn't know was that he had gotten up, and come after you, desperate for a drink as well. He was standing, frozen in the kitchen door as you sang happily, oblivious to his turmoil as he stood behind you.

He was amazed. Your voice had changed so much since you were all little kids. It was more powerful, richer, much more mature. How had he not noticed? You were singing beautifully. And quietly, he turned away, that heavenly voice of yours still ringing in his head.

And that was how it began. But how did it get to this Angel, how come it's made him so sad?

You were polar opposites, for a start. He threw himself into the crazy, mixed up world of punk and rock. Sex Pistols posters covered his walls, and there were Black Sabbath lyrics scrawled all over his notebooks. Where as, _you_ could take it or leave it. Sure, you liked the new genre of music that you had been introduced to - hell, you _loved_ The Ramones! But you still had your Christina Aguilera albums as well. Obviously, you never told Dewey - knowing him, he probably would have eaten them for breakfast. Hey, you wouldn't put it past him.

It hurt him, knowing how different you were. That difference was made all the more obvious when you started going out with Bradley, grade A student, popular and gorgeous. He was a good boy, but not a goody-goody. He sure knew how to throw a party! But still. . .Bradley was so different to him Angel. And it really did hurt him.

And then to top it off, you broke his heart, ripped it in two, shredded it to little tiny pieces, burned it and then stamped on the ashes. And you had no idea.

You had caught Bradley kissing someone else. Another girl. Amber. Absolutely stunning. You were _heartbroken_ Angel, crying your eyes out. It was outside the cinema. You were supposed to be seeing that new Harry Potter film, the third one. Instead, you saw your boyfriend making out with someone else. So you turned. You ran, ran faster than you ever had in your life, and **_wham!_** ran straight into someone. Coincidence? It was _him_. Not Bradley, oh no. The one who calls you Angel. . .

He was so worried about you. You had tears spurting down your cheeks, and your knee was bleeding where you had stumbled over. He put a comforting arm round you, and led you back to his house. No, nothing like that. It didn't even go through his mind. You see Angel, he loves you so much that when he saw you in the state you were in, it didn't occur to him.

He sat you down, gave you a strong cup of coffee.

"Thank you," you whispered.

"What happened?" He asked, dark eyes shining with worry. You picked at a loose thread on your skirt. And then it all came pouring out. Bradley. What you had seen him do.

"That asshole," he hissed. How _could_ anyone even think about hurting someone so pure like you? He was angry, really angry. And then silence fell over both of you. And you sat there. It was strangely awkward and yet, strangely nice. Just the two of sitting in silence.

And then, like the little Angel that you are, you thanked him for looking after you. But you had to leave. You kissed him on the cheek, and left. That memory has stayed with him forever. It was the last time he was happy Angel, did you know that?

But how did you break his heart? You got back together with Bradley, that's how. He saw you in the park together, holding hands. The next day, at school, he walked up to you and asked why the hell you were back with 'that bastard'.

You described the flowers that Bradley had sent you, the notes, the phone calls. He said, quite matter-of-factly, that it sounded like dear Bradley had turned into a stalker. You glared at him, and he promptly shut up. Angel or not, you can pack one hefty punch, and boy doesn't he know it! You told him that Bradley was eternally sorry, and that _you believed him_. You said you had to be with Bradley because. . .

. . .because you loved him.

He just stared, felt violently ill as you walked away. In fact, that's why he never appeared during lunch, he was in the nurses' office.

And then School of Rock went on tour that summer. He played with terrifying energy during the shows. People would be yelling his name, but he wasn't listening Angel, oh no. People would come up to him after the shows, but he would just slink away, his head bowed.

And God, how you worried. You _all_ worried. He'd changed Angel, and you all knew it. But you didn't know _why_ he'd changed. He was so quiet - unnaturally quiet. He never came to the after-show parties. He _had_ to come to the meet-and-greets, obviously, but he had no enthusiasm for the fans anymore. He would sign something, give it back, smile - but it was an empty smile. You missed his real smile, the one where his eyes sparkled as he grinned happily. Happy. Something you hadn't seen him be in a long time.

You went up to him once, put your hand on his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" You asked gently. "You've been acting strangely recently."

"I'm fine," he replied, looking up at you with those large, dark eyes. And you nearly burst into tears. Because the sparkle wasn't there anymore, was it Angel? His eyes were dull and lifeless, endless pools of misery.

"Are you sure?" He nodded, looking down at his feet. "You can tell me if something's bothering you. I mean, come on - I am your friend."

_Friend! Friend! That bloody word again!_

"Don't worry about me. I'm just a bit worn out, that's all," he muttered, still looking at the carpet. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself not to cry. 

"Okay," you said softly. "I believe you." But you didn't, did you Angel? No, and it just made you all the more worried. But he wouldn't tell you what was wrong, so you tried to make yourself forget about it. And as much as you'd hate to admit it, forget you did! The tour finished. You went back to school. Did homework, had band practice, went out with Bradley. Time flew by, and before you even knew it. . .

. . .It was summer again.

And so it comes to this. This is your second tour. But it'll be just like the last, as far as he's concerned. You know what I mean Angel. The odd behaviour. The empty smiles. Nothing's changed. But the worst thing is - you're starting to get used to it, aren't you?

You played a show yesterday - it'll be your last one for a little while, as you have three glorious days off. Somehow (God knows how he got the money, as he usually blows it on new and awesome guitars), Dewey has managed to rent a little house for you all to stay in. Far enough from the city for you all to relax. Not too far so that you can't travel there for a day.

Right now, they're all in the city. Dewey drove them there earlier. Why didn't you want to go? Why aren't you with them? You don't want to admit it, but Angel, even _I_ know why you haven't gone with the others.

Because _he_ didn't want to go either. He said he felt ill, and they believed him. **You** just said you were tired, and that maybe you should get an early night. But I think we know why you really stayed back, don't we Angel?

You're scared of what he could do if he was left on his own. Sure, you may have gotten used to the behaviour, but it doesn't mean you're any less worried. In fact, you're even more worried, aren't you? Because for the past few days, he literally has not uttered a single word. And that would worry anyone. So really, you stayed back to keep an eye on him.

But right now, you are fast asleep, sprawled out across the sofa - are you snoring? Angels don't snore, do they? But he doesn't care, he just watches all the same. Watches you as you sleep. Perfect angel.

Suddenly, he stands up. He is clutching something tightly in the palm of his hand. It's glinting. What is it? Something silver, and shiny. . .

A razorblade. Why has he got a razorblade Angel? Because he's sick of feeling like this. All he wants is for this nightmare to end. The pain is getting too much. He's going to put an end to it all, make the nightmare go away, put everything right. . .

He swears as the razor cuts through the skin on the palm of his hand. He's holding the razor tightly, as if he's afraid to let go. Maybe he is. I don't know.

He sits gently on the edge of the sofa, next to you. He pushes your thick hair back from your face. You mutter something in your sleep. He freezes. Are you waking up? No.

He takes a deep breath. His face is only inches away from yours. He can see the gentle curl of your eyelashes. They flutter lightly, he notices. He can feel your breath on his skin. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. A funny tingling feeling spreads through his toes.

_Love. . ._

He's leaning closer towards you Angel. . .he kisses you gently on the cheek. A look of disgust flies across his face. What has he done? _I've just violated an angel_. . .he whispers, beginning to shake slightly. He bows his head, and his shoulders start shaking as the tears begin to flow again.

Without a word, he stands, and walks away, upstairs, towards the bathroom. It is dark. There are no lights on. He doesn't care. This is what he prefers - the dark. He feels that it is where he belongs.

He pushes the bathroom door open, and promptly walks into something. He swears violently, and flips the light on, wincing at the sudden brightness that stings his eyes. He hates the light.

He leans against the wall, suddenly so tired. He closes his eyes. He slides down the wall until he is on the floor. He is right in the corner of the bathroom. The cold tiles make him shiver, but he does not care. He has not cared about anything for a long, long time. Except for you Angel.

There is the sudden scraping sound of metal against flesh, and he opens his eyes. Did he do that? He watches the blood drip down his arm. Oh Angel. He did it because he thought of you. He loves you and hates you now. You have made him like this.

He curls up into a ball and sobs, hard, as thoughts of you fill his mind. He can't stop thinking about you. He loves you. But he can never have you. And that knowledge is _killing_ him Angel.

He squeezes the blade tightly in his hand. Blood drips through his fingers and onto the white tiled floor. His blood. His pain. His life is now dripping freely from his bloody fist. He stares in wonder, as it falls over the white marble tiles and forms different patterns.

Each drop means less pain. Less pain.

That's not enough for him Angel. He wants _all_ the pain to disappear. He wants all of the pain to vanish. . .to be gone. Angel. . .he wants you to stop hurting him like this.

He places the blade over his bony wrist, takes a deep breath. . .and pushes the blade in, as hard as he can.

"Shit," he curses, as blood gushes to the surface and splatters onto the floor. It hurts - oh God, how it hurts. But then, as more and more blood appears, he finds the pain to be lessening.

That's not enough. He doesn't want the pain to be lessening. He wants it to be _gone_.

He slices his skin apart again, right over the first cut. Pain courses sharply through his body, but he still isn't satisfied. Angry, he tears his skin part with the blade again and again and again.

Blood soon floods the floor. His blue t-shirt, the one that YOU gave him for Christmas a few years ago, turns purple from the amount of blood that covers. The white tiles are red now Angel.

He doesn't know how many cuts he's made. All he cares about is ending the pain, getting you out of his system. He keeps cutting. . .

Cutting for what?

Cutting for death?

Cutting for death.

He wants to die. He does not want to live anymore. Everything is just too much, and he does not want to have to put up with it anymore. . .

How much more blood can there be? You tell me Angel, you're the biology whiz! Blood keeps pouring from his arm. Just keeps pouring.

Every short, sharp breath that he takes pains his lungs. His fingers have gone cold and numb. He cannot feel them. But he can fell the dry tears over his face.

He wants to cry, but he can't. He doesn't have any strength left to cry. Everything around him has turned blurry and all he can see is a sickly mixture of red and white. He can't stand the sight.

He closes his eyes, letting everything flow away.

A beautiful numb feeling washes through his body. This is it. _I'm going to die soon_, he thinks to himself. _Soon, it'll all be over. Soon. . ._

"Freddy," a faint voice sounds in his ear. Is it you Angel? Yes. It is. How ironic. Just when he thinks he's free of you. . .

You grab a towel from off the edge of the bath, and wrap it tightly round his arm, to make the blood stop. But he doesn't want it to stop. He's so close now. . .

"Freddy. . .oh God, please, wake up!" He feels his tummy flip. He knows and recognises that voice extremely well. _Shit!_ his mind screams. _It's. . .oh God, don't let it be. . . Not now! Not when I'm so close!_ He tries to ignore it. To ignore YOU. But your sweet, heavenly voice is still sounding through his ears.

He thinks he's too weak to face you now Angel. He couldn't barely face you before, so why should he be able to now?

He wants you to give up, give up now, and just leave. Just leave him alone to let him die.

_Why can't I just be left alone?_ he thinks.__

Angel, you're crying. Angels aren't supposed to cry. But you're crying so hard that you do not see him open his eyes.

You're hurt. So hurt. You're crying, calling his name. Your green shirt has gone dark from the blood that stains it, so dark that it's nearly black. You love that shirt. He knows it. This makes him realise something - he's hurting you. Just like you hurt him.

Angels aren't supposed to hurt.

He gathers all his strength and uses it to lift his good arm. He extends his hand to your face, and gently brushes his fingertips against your skin.

Your eyes snap open and you jerk away. Then you realise it's him. And the sheer joy in your eyes, the joy of him being alive - it's overwhelming Angel. Your eyes shine with fresh tears, and the most beautiful smile flicks across your face. You look like you're glowing - like a true angel.

He matches your smile. His hand gently strokes away your tears. With a jolt of horror, he realises that he's stained your face with his blood - as if you care about that!

I think he wants to say something Angel. But you won't let him. Instead, you wrap your arms around him and grip him tightly. Your hands gently stroke his back as he starts crying once again. His own arms snake round your waist, and he hugs you back. You grip him even more tightly, scared to let go of him. Don't worry Angel. I don't think he's going anywhere. In fact, he's gripping onto just as tightly. He feels safe now. Safe in your arms.

You pull away and stare deep into his eyes. You put your hands either side of his face so that he can't look away.

"Never," you whisper. "Never do this to me again." He nods. And you know something Angel? He means it. The pain isn't there anymore. It's gone. Gone away in your arms.

Gone.

He swallows hard. I think I can guess what he's about to do Angel. He leans towards you, and his lips touch yours. His eyes are shut. He's waiting. Waiting for you to let go, and run. Waiting for you to run off to Bradley. Waiting for you to leave him to die. . .

But you're his angel. And angels don't do that.

So you don't run. You don't go to Bradley. And you don't leave him to die. Instead, you press your lips harder against his. Your lips part, and your tongue licks his bottom lip. He's definitely amazed! His tongue makes contact with yours, and your hands grip onto his thick hair as he deepens the kiss.

He's feeling weak now. Weak because of the blood loss, weak because of the strength of the kiss, weak because of you.

And then you end the kiss. Your hands are still gripping onto his hair, but neither of you actually care. He's staring up at you Angel, I think he's trying to say something. He wants to tell you that he loves you. But I think you've already guessed that, as you place a finger on his lips.

"Shh," you whisper gently. "Please - just promise me that you will never, _ever_ do this to yourself - or me - again."

"I promise Marta," Freddy whispers. And you smile. Your lips touch again as you share your second kiss with him. And as your kiss deepens, I can tell that his pain is gone.

He isn't dead.

Everything's gonna be okay.

Because he's got you.

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THE END

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A/N: Hoo boy. Don't flame me for that, will you? I know it wasn't exactly great. . .hmm, anyway. Yeah. Please review!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


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